Chapter 47
Too soon, the time came when Yvain had to leave.
“King Arthur has declared war on Lancelot,” he said, one bright but chilly morning. “According to Sir Kay, Gawain demanded justice for the death of his brothers. The killings were treasonously done, so my uncle had no choice but to acquiesce.”
We were standing on my balcony under a blue sky, the first crisp scent of autumn in the air. Yvain and I had spent three months together, longer than I ever could have hoped for.
I took the letter from him and read the news myself. “This is how you said it would be,” I replied. “Your instincts were correct.”
He sighed. “I didn’t want to be right, Mother. I would give anything to be wrong.”
I put my hand on his. “I know.”
The official Royal Summons came soon after, calling Sir Yvain up to lead a company into war. He was to gather his liegemen and meet his High King in Benoic, to do battle with his most beloved friend.
“This is strange,” he commented. “My uncle has left Sir Mordred in charge. I never knew they were so well acquainted. I would not have guessed it in a hundred years.”
I recalled the knight from our one meeting, the sly, golden-haired youth who sneered at his brother bleeding out, and found Lancelot’s paintings in a room he had no business wandering into.
He had also run away like a scolded dog when Gawain had chased him off.
Perhaps the battlefield was not for him.
“Mordred is of Orkney,” I said. “Youngest brother or not, your aunt Morgause’s sons have always formed the spine of Camelot. Perhaps the King is trying to soothe Gawain.”
He took it in with consideration, but passed no comment. “There is also a note for you,” he said, showing me a small scroll. “You are not to read it until I leave.”
Naturally, I reached for it anyway. Yvain grinned, holding the curled parchment out of my reach.
“No indeed—you must master your endless curiosity,” he said, and his playfulness, the ease with which we now knew one another, was more than I had hoped for; more than I could ever dream.
When his last morning came, I had not slept at all, so I watched the sunrise and thought of my son, his grace and acceptance, how far we had journeyed in such a short interval. It felt as though we had been years together, but no time would ever be enough.
Inevitably, the moment was upon us. Yvain stood before me on Belle Garde’s front green, handsome and rested, but with a crease in his brow that could not be smoothed away.
Before I could find any words, he took my hands in his and looked at me directly with the blue eyes of Cornwall I had given him.
“Mother,” he said. I could never tire of hearing it.
“I know you fear nothing,” he continued. “That you are a woman of great power and you have lived all this before. But the kingdom is about to become very dangerous, even more for those without sword and armour. You should go somewhere safe.”
It was all I could do not to pull him into my arms. “I’m already here,” I said.
“For a time, no one in this realm was more under threat than I was, and I’ve kept myself, my valley and my people from harm.
It is you I worry for—sword and armour may save you on the battlefield, but it will not withstand if the world implodes. ”
“It is a knight’s life,” he said.
“Codes and tenets do not apply to chaos,” I replied. “You are more than a knight, Yvain—you are my son. Stay here. Send for your wife, your lioness, anyone you love, and bring them to Belle Garde. I can protect you.”
Fleetingly, I thought of Ninianne’s warnings, of the fading magic and the struggles I encountered as it drained away. No matter, I thought; I would make two walls of charms, three, recast them every hour if need be. Anything it took.
Yvain ducked his head with genuine regret. “I can’t,” he said. “Who then will protect King Arthur?”
I had no answer; the same impossible question was never far from my mind.
I put my hand to my son’s face. “I understand,” I replied. “You are a good knight, and the best of men.”
He gave a sad, grateful smile. “I will be safe, Mother. I promise.”
He could not promise such a thing, but I would not tell him that. Yvain’s strength, his courage, would come from his own bright sense of hope.
“I love you,” I said suddenly. “I have no right to say it, perhaps, but you must know. I have loved you, always. Since the day you were born.”
His eyes grew wide, alight with confusion, a glaze of tears across the blue.
“Do not reply,” I said. “You have done enough. Just to hear you call me Mother…I could die now, and my last moments would have been happy.”
A brief cloud of decision crossed his face, then in a swift, unexpected movement, Yvain held out his arms and let me embrace him.
He was so much bigger than me I could not envelop him as I wanted, as I used to when his entire body could be cradled against my chest, but in that moment, I could have encompassed the universe if it meant holding him close.
My son rested his chin on my shoulder. “Or,” he said. “You could live, and after all this is settled we can meet again, stay together for as long as we wish.” He drew back, still holding my arms, steadying us both. “We will carry on.”
A pair of tears ran down my face. “It is all I want.”
He nodded and kissed both of my cheeks. “Good. We won’t forget.”
Stepping away, he checked his sword, mounted his horse, then picked up one side of his cloak and swept it across his chest and over his shoulder. He looked down at me, beautiful, defiant, ready for the road and battles ahead. My son, the consummate knight, but carrying my essence, entirely himself.
“I will miss you, Mother,” he said.
“I will miss you too,” I said. “Goodbye, my precious eyas.”
He smiled, his eyes aglow as if he remembered the name from a time long past. “Until we meet again,” he said, and rode away.
*
With my son gone, it took me a moment, and a tearful climb to the top of the turret, to spot the curled parchment he had left on my desk. Wiping my eyes, I pulled the ribbon free and dutifully unfurled the scroll.
Unexpectedly, it was not Sir Kay’s hand on the page, but Arthur’s.
Morgan, it said. I feel that you are restless, full of strategy and wisdom. I know you will be desperate to ride out and come to my aid. But if you never listen to me again, do me this one honour—an act of trust between a true-hearted brother and his clever sister.
Hold fast. You will know how to help me when the time comes.
*
Within a fortnight of Yvain leaving Belle Garde, speculation was rife, but information was sparse.
No one, not even tradesmen or travelling merchants, knew much beyond what was said in the official Royal Declaration—the Round Table was at war, Lancelot would answer for his treasons, and Sir Mordred of Orkney had been left in charge.
There was Arthur’s faction, and there was Lancelot’s—both had riches, prowess and the love of fighting men. It was impossible to know how it would conclude, but bloodshed was guaranteed.
Eventually, Elaine wrote with the little she had.
She was safe in Garlot with her daughters, though her husband had taken his bannermen and gone to fight for Arthur with her sons.
Sir Mordred, she said, had not put the realm on a wartime footing, but was at Camelot, throwing banquets for the kingdom’s remaining barons—men of old age and even older power—seemingly shoring up morale and reassuring the country’s elder statesmen that all was well in the seat of Arthur’s power.
Guinevere, she added, was notably not present.
However, as a hard winter froze us in, so did the news trail turn even colder.
Not even Elaine had much beyond the occasional battle report from Benoic as the conflict dragged on.
It was difficult not to hear of Yvain or Arthur, and my mind turned to Ninianne—where she was, what she might know.
There had been nothing of her since the Grail Quest.
In my study, I drew out the silver bowl from behind the Hecate tapestries and poured the water, waiting for it to settle, my hand hovering to seek the element’s essence.
Find her, I exhorted the crystal liquid. Bring me Ninianne of the Lake.
The water would shiver, coruscating with internal light, and I would wait for it to turn calm and reflect Ninianne’s matchless face, only for the surface to keep rippling, never settling to its glassy stillness. Her low, sonorous voice did not come.
Some days, I tried multiple times, counting to bring myself patience while willing her to appear. When spring came, I visited Accolon most days, and it was not long before he noted my preoccupation.
“What’s wrong?” he asked one morning, as I paused to skim a stone across the lake. That day, I had counted to three hundred over the bowl before I gave in.
“I can’t reach Ninianne,” I said. “I’ve been trying to communicate with her and nothing. Wherever she is, she cannot answer the call of water.”
“Is that unusual?” he asked. “You said she is used to being on her own. Also, King Arthur and Sir Lancelot are doing battle—is she not with one of them?”
His measured response eased my tension, but only slightly. “Maybe so, but it’s been months. She should have answered at least once.”
He frowned, trailing gold-dust fingertips across my shoulder. “You’re truly concerned, aren’t you?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. Something feels different. I can’t explain it.”
His warmth and our time together soothed me, but the feeling of unease persisted, particularly when I reached the foot of the lake path and found the huntsman waiting, looking unusually flustered.
“There are armed men just outside the house,” he said. “Their leader wishes to see you at once, but alone.”
“Whose men?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I thought I knew every standard in the realm, but I do not recognize their banner from the Devil’s.”
It rang as odd, even in unprecedented times. Taking a side door back inside, I marched through the house and out onto the front green, into the towering shadow of a man swathed entirely in black.
Behind him, a row of seven heavily armoured guards stood silently, wearing matching black tunics bearing a fierce two-headed eagle in gold. The former device of Orkney, when it was a sovereign nation.
“Sir Mordred,” I said. “Why are you here?”
Morgause’s youngest son inclined his bright head. He was dressed in dark silks, more like a lord than a knight, and wore no spurs. A slim ornamental sword sat at his hip.
“Lady Morgan,” he greeted. “I wish to speak with you, on a matter of great importance.” He glanced at the huntsman, steadfast at my shoulder. “Privately. The news I bring is grave, and sensitive. Only for the ears of those with the appropriate pedigree.”
I resented his snide approach to status, in this place that had long shaken off such things. However, he was, if not quite the regent of the country, as close as we currently had. To invoke rank suggested whatever he had come for pertained to the highest echelons of the Royal Court. My brother.
I nodded to the huntsman. “You may leave us.”
“As you wish, my lady. Though I will not be far.” He bowed, eying the men suspiciously, then stalked off between the house and spring.
“There,” I said to Sir Mordred. “You have my full attention. What is this about?”
“Forgive the intrusion, Lady Morgan, and for my having to bring you this news at all.” He drew a long breath and regarded me with flat grey eyes. “King Arthur is dead.”